Page 63 of A Breath of Life (Shadowy Solutions #4)

Diem

A spear of ice shot down my spine at the sound of gunshots.

No. Not multiple . One single shot. So far.

Fuck this. If people were shooting, I wasn’t sticking around to find out why.

Tied to a chair, I was an easy fucking target, unable to defend myself if someone came after me, and they would come after me.

I’d be dead before I hit the ground. If I was going to die, I was going to die fighting.

I folded my body in half and went for the knife strapped to my ankle. Getting it unsheathed proved trickier than I expected with the rope so tightly secured around my legs, not to mention the clunky fucking handcuffs restricting my movements.

“Goddammit.”

With persistence and far too much swearing, I inched it out with two fingers and promptly dropped it on the floor out of reach. A scream rose up my throat, but I swallowed it. My shortened fuse wouldn’t get me anywhere but six feet under. I needed to focus on getting out of this alive .

The knife didn’t slide away, per se, but it landed at a distance, so I couldn’t quite grasp it, no matter how far I stretched my fingers. I strained, growled, and pushed against my restraints to no avail.

“Motherfucker.”

Nostrils flaring, I tried again, but it was no use.

With my feet bound to the chair, my legs were nearly immobile, but if I wiggled the rope higher up my shins so I could widen my stance, I might be able to do it. It took a song and dance, but with effort, I managed to skim the knife’s hilt with the toe of a running shoe.

Flexing my foot, extending it to the max, I ever so slightly inched the knife toward me.

Sweat beaded my upper lip, and I tried so fucking hard not to lose my temper when I didn’t seem to be making progress.

Time ticked ominously in my ears, wasting away.

The uproar above steadily escalated. More shouting. More crashing.

No more gunshots.

Yet , I kept telling myself.

The alcohol I’d consumed dampened the worst of my stress, but it also hampered my fine motor control and perpetuated the throbbing pain radiating across my face from the Bishop’s most recent assault.

The new wound pulsed with its own heartbeat the more I strained.

Ignoring it proved impossible, and I wanted to vomit or punch a wall.

Catching the knife with the tip of my rubber sole, I moved one millimeter at a time.

Sometimes, I was convinced it went backward.

When it was finally within reach, I exhaled relief and bent to grab it, immediately wedging the sharp edge under the rope between my legs.

With awkward movements, thanks to my bound hands, I sawed myself free.

The knife was sharp, but the rope was thick, and I only managed to apply enough pressure to cut a few threads at a time.

Again, progress was too slow. Minutes ticked by.

My hands grew slick with sweat—compromising my grip—and ached from exertion.

I kept checking the door, expecting the Bishop to return and catch me in the act of escaping. That would go down like a sinking ship.

He had abandoned his phone beside the suitcase of horrors. One call to the nursing home and I’d lose Nana forever.

That couldn’t— wouldn’t —happen.

How many other men in Ace’s gang had the nursing home’s number on speed dial? Hopefully, the Bishop was the only one.

The risks of fleeing pounded my brain to a pulp. Nana’s face came to mind. Her time-wrinkled hands working yarn. Her crinkled brow as she waded through diseased-addled memories to try to figure out who I was. Nana, the only person who had ever given a shit.

I tried desperately to push her from my thoughts. I couldn’t divide my attention between listening for someone’s approach, getting free, and Nana. Uneasiness soured my belly as the commotion above never ceased.

Something was very wrong.

You’re useless.

“Shut up, Dad.”

No good waste of space. Better off dead.

I couldn’t shut off my father’s taunts, so I let them fuel me.

Clenching my teeth, I pressed harder with the knife as though it might help.

Another crash. More shouting. A police raid? The absence of the telltale demands of authority said not, but I couldn’t be sure. My luck wasn’t that good. Wherever this place was located, I strongly suspected it wasn’t on the police’s radar.

I finally severed the last few threads of rope, and it pooled like a snake around my feet. I methodically unwound it from my legs, the chair, and then my body, grateful the Bishop hadn’t used more than one.

Once free, I aimed for the discarded wire that had originally bound my wrists.

It was thin and pliable, so I shaped it to function as a lockpick.

The tricky part was finagling a way to use it while attached to the item I wanted to unlock.

My fingers and wrists weren’t flexible enough to achieve the right angle, so I fought and I swore and fought some more.

I was not a man gifted with endless patience, and the intricate nature of the task infuriated me, making it ten times harder than it should have been. After four failed attempts, dropping the makeshift lockpick every time, I kicked the sideboard with a growl.

The stoppers on the line of crystal decanters clinked and jiggled. “Don’t fucking tempt me,” I growled at the bottles, unsure if I wanted to drain them down my parched throat or smash them on the floor. Maybe both.

Temple pulsing in time with my increased heart rate, I secured the wire between my oversized fingers again and carefully positioned it over the keyhole.

With cautious precision, I managed to get the wire where I needed it.

Closing my eyes, I wiggled it until I recognized the feel of the intricate mechanisms inside, but no matter what I did, I was unable to pop the lock.

At this rate, I would need to fight my way out of this place in handcuffs.

I couldn’t stay in the basement much longer. Someone would come looking for me.

The wire slipped through my fingers again, and I cursed.

Collecting it, I braced a shoulder against the wall for stability and to stop my hands from shaking before making another attempt.

I shouldn’t have encouraged the repeated drinks.

Maybe they didn’t affect me as much on a grand scale, but they had fucked up my dexterity .

“Come on. Work you piece of shit. I don’t have time for this.” I manipulated the wire into the lock and twisted it, listening and waiting for the click that told me I was free. “Come on,” I growled through gritted teeth.

The increasing chaos above and the flutter of my quickened pulse didn’t help. “Fuck shit fuck.” I blew out a breath. “For Nana. Do it for Nana. Come on. Open you sonofabitch.”

The wire caught in the right spot. I felt it. This was it. Yes. All I had to do was—

Someone jiggled the doorknob.

I froze, fingers slipping on the wire. No. Not now.

A single bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of my nose.

Whoever was on the other side of the door cursed.

Shit, shit, shit. Time was up. I abandoned the wire and grabbed my knife, moving swiftly to a spot where I wouldn’t be seen when the person unlocked the door. With the element of surprise, I could take them out, handcuffs or not.

Whoever it was seemed to be having trouble opening the door.

Air dragged in and out of my lungs more audibly than I would have liked, but I couldn’t calm down. My head spun, and blood pulsed in my ears. My system flooded with adrenaline.

Fight, fight, fight.

I waited, prepared to act. To attack. Incapacitate. Knock them out. Headbutt them in the face. Put them in a sleeper hold if I could manage to get a proper grip around their neck.

My insides vibrated. The room darkened at the edges as my vision narrowed.

This wasn’t the exhilaration that came from punching a bag.

This was the sick hunger for violence I’d abandoned years ago when a lifetime accumulation of rage had formed a toxic sludge that always led to no good.

The flames of youthful wrath burned under my skin, and a tiny, insidious voice in the back of my head told me to kill, kill, kill whoever breached the door.

Unleash it all. Show no mercy. These people threatened Nana.

They threatened the only man I’d ever loved.

Let go for once, and…

The latch clicked, and the door opened inward before I could stopper the poison spilling into my veins.

Without taking inventory of who entered the room, I moved, using my vastly larger size to slam the person into the wall with all my force.

The wind exploded from their lungs like a popped balloon .

They were shorter and scrawnier than me by half, but once they registered danger, they fought like a rabid raccoon facing off with a hungry coyote.

A flailing elbow caught my wrist at an awkward angle, and I lost the knife, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t need a weapon.

Regardless of their determination, it didn’t take much effort to knock their hat askew and loop an arm over their head. I tightened my hold around their throat and squeezed with all my might.

End fucking game.

I heaved them against me hard enough that their feet left the floor.

Their frenzied thrashing and kicking were pointless.

I had them right where I wanted them. As I applied pressure to their windpipe, distantly aware that my intent was to kill, a barely audible voice wheezed, “D, stop. It’s me. Stop.”

For the second time in under five minutes, I froze. Every muscle in my body seized. Petrified. The whirlwind of thoughts screaming inside my head registered the voice, but the head of blond hair under my chin didn’t match. Was I losing my fucking mind?

Anxious fingers scrabbled at my arm, clawing bloody trails into my skin in desperation. “Let go… I can’t… Diem… D… Guns…”

Guns. No!